Al Dente
by Mara Greengrass
Summary: Tough guys can be the biggest babies.


TITLE: Al Dente  
DISCLAIMER: Phileas, Rebecca, Jules and Passepartout belong to Talisman Crest Ltd. Sadly, I'll never see one red cent for writing this.  
NOTES: This story was conceived approximately three years ago but not written until now, when I decided to respond to LtLJ's request in the Yuletide/New Year's Resolution challenge. I never thought I'd write in this fandom again, but the nostalgia factor was too strong. Thanks to LtLJ for the prompt.

* * *

Rebecca sat in her chair and watched Phileas out of the corner of her eye. He took a sip of tea, winced, and put the cup down.

"Passepartout, this tea is too hot."

"No, Master, it is being exactly the same as always." Passepartout's chin came up and he clicked his heels together in annoyance. "Do you wish to test it?"

"No, blast it, just take the damn tea away." Phileas looked peevish, standing up and pacing back and forth across the deck, heels clicking sharply.

"Phileas, would you like to set the Aurora down and get off for a few hours?" Rebecca asked, as he did his best caged tiger impression.

"No," he snapped. "I do not want to delay our voyage any further. It's been delayed enough."

Rebecca frowned at him. "It was hardly a frivolous delay for us to pick up encoded messages for Sir Jonathan."

"Perhaps, but we were delayed nonetheless." Phileas sat back down in his seat and picked up his newspaper again, pretending to read. She could tell the difference because he kept shifting position--when he was really reading the paper, he put much more of his concentration into it.

After a few minutes of turning pages, Phileas idly picked up a chocolate biscuit and put it in his mouth. Rebecca jumped in alarm when he suddenly doubled over with his hands covering his mouth. Passepartout bustled over, eyes wide with concern.

"Phileas? What's wrong?" She knelt in front of him, grabbing his shoulders.

"Gerovme," he said.

"What?"

He choked, managing to swallow the pieces of biscuit. "Let go of me," he said, enunciating each word with care.

Rebecca stood up and put her hands on her hips, staring at her cousin. "What is wrong with you?"

"Nothing." Now instead of a caged tiger, he looked like a sulky child.

"Oh please. That lie wouldn't fool the merest infant. You've been acting strangely for a week."

He mumbled something.

"What was that?"

"I've got a toothache," he said, staring at the floor.

"Good lord, is that all?" Rebecca wanted to laugh with relief.

"All? Do you have any idea how much it hurts?"

"Yes, but this problem can be fixed!"

"Oh no, I'm not letting one of those butchers get hold of me. I'm convinced this dentistry business is all some League plot."

"Don't be ridiculous, Phileas. Dentists attend schools now."

"Out of the question, Rebecca."

Passepartout bounced once or twice. "Maybe I can be helping, Master?"

"What?" Phileas stared at him.

"I'll show you!"

Passepartout rushed up the stairs and Phileas and Rebecca stared at each other in astonishment.

"Look, Master!" Passepartout sidled his way back down balancing a contraption in his arms. "We are not always near doctors, I am thinking, so I built this."

Rebecca's jaw dropped as she stared at a mass of probes that looked like something Count Gregory might use. In fact, the last time they'd been captured, hadn't he had something similar?

"Good god, man, what is that thing?" Phileas took a step backward.

"It's a--"

"Never mind." Phileas looked at the machine with loathing. "Just get it out of my sight."

Rebecca watched Passepartout's shoulders droop. "Now, Phileas, why don't you--"

"I am not going to let either my valet or some overqualified barber touch me and that is final." Phileas stomped up the steps, leaving an astonished Rebecca and Passepartout to stare after him.

* * *

Phileas' mood only became fouler over the next few days, and by the time they landed in Paris, he looked ready to kill someone. Rebecca pondered what to do about her stubborn cousin as she prepared to make her report to the local office of the British Secret Service.

"Come back quickly, Miss Rebecca," Passepartout whispered.

"Don't worry, he won't bite," she said, tucking her favorite knife into an elegant burgundy boot and checking the hilt wasn't visible.

"Passepartout, where the hell are you?" The voice echoed down the stairs like the bellow of a lion.

Rebecca fought a grin. "He won't bite, because that would hurt even worse."

"Passepartout!"

Passepartout turned to attend his master, casting a last panicked look at Rebecca.

"What is Fogg shouting about?" a voice asked from the doorway. Rebecca smiled at Jules as Passepartout nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Oh, Master Jules, you are scaring me."

"I'm sorry, you probably couldn't hear me over the sound of the yelling." Jules came through the door just as Phileas came down the steps.

"Welcome back, Fogg, is something wrong?"

Passepartout winced as Phileas turned slowly to look at the earnest young Frenchman, apparently deciding to intervene before mayhem ensued. "Master, why don't you sit down and I'll be bringing you a nice slice of cake for your tea."

Phileas took a breath and slowly let it out while Jules waited for an explanation. Rebecca smiled sweetly at three men and waved. "Goodbye, everyone, I'll be back soon. Don't get into any trouble without me."

Conscience more or less clear, she sailed off, no longer bothering to hide her grin.

When she returned, the three men had retired to separate corners to sulk and she pursed her lips in continuing amusement. Really, these men could be so exasperating, she thought as she watched Passepartout furiously scrubbing at a brass fitting, while Phileas pretended to read a book and Jules flipped through a mission report.

"Rebecca!" Jules sounded like he was being rescued from Count Gregory. "Maybe we could go have a drink?"

"Nonsense, Jules. We have perfectly good drinks here and the floor's certainly cleaner than the tavern your friends frequent. If we're going anywhere, we're taking Phileas with us." She settled happily down at the table and looked at her cousin. "Isn't that right, Phileas?"

"What are you talking about, Rebecca?"

"While I was in town, I took the liberty of finding several local dentists."

Phileas glared at her. "Typical."

"Phileas?"

"Going behind my back. Conspiring." He practically snarled the words.

"Fogg!" Jules cried even as Passepartout's anguished "Master!" rang out.

Phileas glared at both of them before finally sighing and turning back. "I'm sorry, Rebecca. Please accept my sincerest apology." He swept a bow which she read as mostly sincere.

She curtsied in response. "Apology accepted. I'm sure the toothache is affecting your temper."

His sharp glance showed that he'd caught the hint of sarcasm, but he chose not to respond. "Yes, the damned tooth is annoying. Now can we sit and have that drink like civilized people?"

Taking a measure of his temper, Rebecca decided that a temporary strategic retreat was in order. "Certainly. Passepartout, if you would?" Sweeping up her skirts, she sat next to Jules, favoring the boy with a brilliant smile. He blushed and she turned to the question of whether to have tea or something stronger.

* * *

Rebecca chose to wait until after dinner to renew her attack. "Thank you, Passepartout," she said in her most fulsome tones, "that was a splendid meal."

"Ah, thank you, Miss Rebecca." Passepartout shot her an anguished glance, undoubtedly knowing what was coming.

"Really, I can't remember the last time I had a roast cooked so perfectly rare. What about you, Jules?"

The young man coughed, not looking at Phileas. "My student budget doesn't allow roasts that often, but it really was very good. Thank you, Passepartout."

"And you, Phileas, what did you think?" Smiling sweetly, she turned her attention to her cousin, who had merely picked at his dinner.

Phileas, drink in hand, stared past the bow of the Aurora at Paris. He'd clearly been pretending not to hear her. "Think of what?" he asked without turning.

"The roast." She spoke with exaggerated patience, knowing how much it annoyed him, and Jules and Passepartout both looked like they wanted to hide under the table. "What did you think of the roast, Phileas?"

Scowling, he turned. "Why are you nattering on about dinner? Is this what the cream of the British Secret Service has come to? Next will we be discussing our gout, perhaps?"

Rebecca shook her head, noting the backhanded compliment woven into the complaint. "Don't overreact. I simply wanted to know if you'd enjoyed the roast."

Cousin and cousin stared at each other for a long minute, while Jules and Passepartout backed out of range of any battle that might result.

"Don't patronize me, Rebecca."

"Oh, I wouldn't dare."

His eyes narrowed. "Then say what you mean."

Out of the corner of her eye, Rebecca saw Passepartout and Jules duck out of the room. "I mean that I was sorry to see you unable to eat any of Passepartout's excellent dinner."

"And if I wasn't hungry?"

"Don't patronize me, Phileas."

"Why are you so dead set on getting me to a dentist?" His chin tilted up, which she knew meant he was getting ready for a fight.

"Because you're going to be even more impossible than usual until you've dealt with that tooth." In an attempt to de-escalate the situation, she sat back down in her seat, hands folded in her lap. "It's irrational to suffer when there are several simple solutions available."

"Irrational? You think it's irrational to avoid the dirty--"

"You're being ridiculous again, Phileas. I have the addresses of several well-trained dentists who've attended the newest schools. We're no longer living in the dark ages, you know."

He sniffed. "I have no desire to be experimented upon by some student wishing to determine the pain tolerance of Parisians."

Glaring, Rebecca wondered why she even bothered. "You've gone beyond ridiculous into sheer madness. I'd almost be willing to say you're scared of seeing a dentist."

"That is the most absurd--"

"Please get your tooth taken care of." Rebecca changed tactics, since games didn't seem to be working. "I don't like to see you in pain, Phileas."

He visibly weakened as she let her concern show on her fact. "It's not that...there just hasn't been any time."

"Well, we have plenty of time now."

He pursed his lips, obviously searching for a better argument and not finding one. Frowning, he finally gave in. "Fine, I'll go." He sounded disgruntled, but at least he'd agreed.

"Good." She stood, smoothing her skirts. "Let's go then."

"What?" He took an involuntary step backward.

"This is not a time for shilly-shallying. It's your health, after all."

They swept out the door, Phileas muttering to himself the whole time.

* * *

When they trailed back in two hours later, Passepartout and Jules nearly jumped out of their seats.

"Master, they are treating you. You are feeling better?" Passepartout wrung his hands.

"Fogg, how are you?"

Phileas ignored their concerned expressions and stalked to his chair, walking stick tapping a counterpoint to each step. He handed the stick to Passepartout, sinking into the seat with an exaggerated sigh. "Passepartout, if you could, a cup of tea."

Rebecca sat across from him, a grin hovering about her lips as Passepartout fussed over his master like a mother hen.

"So, Fogg, it wasn't as bad as you thought?" Now that the immediate danger was past, Jules seemed willing to bait the tiger.

"Hmm?" Phileas looked up from contemplation of his teacup.

"Was the dentist as bad as you thought it would be?"

Phileas' lips twitched. "It was a typical afternoon for Rebecca and I, really."

Passepartout and Jules exchanged confused glances. "How do you mean, master?"

"I escaped near-certain death by the skin of my teeth."

Rebecca rolled her eyes as Phileas smirked at her.

--end--

Final author's note: On the title...yeah, I know "al dente" is most commonly used in English to refer to the doneness of pasta, but you do know what the phrase actually means, right? Right?

It means, "to the tooth," of course.


End file.
